Hobbit Tales
by Pippinfan1988
Summary: A collection of short stories. Chapter 8: Grandmum's Button Box. Eglantine's button box piques the interest of her family from Diamond's pov.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: All Hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien.

**Characters**: Pippin, Paladin. Pippin's first impression of Sancho Proudfoot.

**Tinderwood's Pipe Shop **

Hobbiton, Afterlithe, 1393, S.R.

Big houses….tall trees. To three-year-old Pippin, everything was either big or tall. Even hobbit-teens appeared larger than life to the small child. Pippin sucked on his forefinger while clinging to his papa's big hand as they walked past the village square towards the door of Mr. Tinderwood's Pipe Shop.

"Come along, Pippin," said Paladin, smiling to his young son. "Up we go!" Paladin swept his little faunt into the air to make him giggle; with a firm hold on the boy's hand, he then let Pippin land upright in his arms.

Pippin placed his finger in his mouth again, but also cackled as his papa found ticklish spots round his tummy.

Paladin planted a kiss on his boy's smiling face as he opened the shop door with his free hand. "Be a good lad now, Pippin." With that, Paladin set the child down, however, he soon found the little boy stuck to him like honey. "There's nothing to be afraid of," Paladin spoke gently.

Pippin wasn't so sure about this strange place. He warily eyeballed the huge barrels stacked high against the wall. He pointed to them while trying to talk around the finger in his mouth, "Beew, Papa."

Paladin laughed, then crouched down next to his small boy. "Not this time, Pip. That's pipe-weed in those barrels." Paladin went up to the counter and ordered three pouches of Old Toby.

Pippin decided to let the big people talk while he went off for a look about. He spied a crisp yellow leaf on the wooden floor not too far from his papa. Security-finger still in his mouth, Pippin crouched down to pick up the old leaf, turning it in his hand to better look at it. He then put it to his nose for the "smell" test. The leaf had the same fragrance as his papa when he held a certain pouch in his hands while filling his pipe. Still curious, Pippin stuck is tongue out to give the leaf a wee taste.

"No, Pippin!"

Pippin never got to taste-test the object in his hands; his papa took it away and then threw it off to the side. Pippin looked up at the tall hobbit, ever trusting.

"That's a dirty old leaf, Pip. Nasty leaf."

The old shopkeeper laughed, "That little one is a handful, isn't he?"

"That, he is," answered Paladin, the continued their previous conversation in a low volume.

Pippin resigned himself to sit at his papa's feet while listening to dull talk between grown ups.

"Hullo, Olo!" Pippin looked up. His papa wore a smile as he greeted another grown hobbit who just entered the shop. Behind the newcomer was another little boy not much older than Pippin. The little boy and Pippin met eyes; the other boy stuck his tongue out at Pippin. Pippin stood up, hanging onto his father's leg again, saying nothing to the mean boy. Sneaking a one-eyed glance from behind the safety of his father's leg, Pippin stuck his tongue out in response.

"Is that your boy Sancho?" Pippin heard his papa ask the new hobbit.

"He's a right strappin' lad, that Sancho," said Mr. Tinderwood.

"That one yours?" asked Olo, sizing up the small child gripping his father's leg. "When does he become a faunt?"

"He _is _a faunt," Paladin replied firmly. "He's actually a month older than your Sancho."

"Not by the looks of him," countered Olo. His fatherly pride ran as deep as Paladin's. "Lots of folk think my boy is a hearty four year old!"

"Don't forget young Master Pippin has had a hard time of it, Olo," said Mr. Tinderwood in Pippin's defence. "Bein' sick an' all when he was a wee baby--near to dyin', he was."

"He almost looks sickly now," said Olo, "that is, compared to my robust lad."

Paladin snorted a laugh, "Indeed he looks robust. I'd be careful if I were you--he may become a bit too robust around the middle as he gets older."

Both father's glared at one another until the high-pitched voice of Mrs. Tinderwood came singing from in the back room. She emerged through the barrier curtain to the front shop with a platter of apple slices. "I fancied I heard Mr. Paladin out here--and I know he doesn't go _anywhere _without his wee shadow!" She looked over the counter and smiled at the small lad with honey-brown curls kissed by the summer sun.

"That is very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Tinderwood," said Paladin. He lifted his son up then sat him atop the counter. Pippin saw the apple slices then reached over to take one. Olo also picked up his son, but only long enough for the child to grab nearly the entire lot then run into a corner to eat his plunder.

"What do you say, Pip?" Paladin gently prompted his son who now nibbled on his apple slice.

"Pippin apple."

The grown ups laughed. Paladin helped his little boy along, "What do you tell Mrs. Tinderwood for Pippin's apple, eh?"

Still nibbling, Pippin turned to the hobbit-matron with the large apron tied around her waist. "Tenk yoo." More laughter followed.

"How is Mr. Bilbo and his lad doin'?" asked Mrs. Tinderwood. Frodo was one of her husband's favourite customers, always polite and willing to listen to the proprietor's tales of his youth.

"Both of my cousins are faring better today, although Bilbo had the worst of it, being up in age and all," answered Paladin. "I'm staying only until tomorrow at elevenses, then my children and I will be heading back to Whitwell."

"Crops won't grow without tendin' to," put in Mr. Tinderwood. "The old Gaffer will tell you that as well."

"Aye," said Paladin, taking Pippin in his arms then grabbed his purchased items. Pippin finished his apple slice then began rubbing his eyes. "I best be going now. It's almost time for his nap."

"Good day t' ya, Mister Paladin," the Tinderwoods spoke in unison.

"Keep feeding that boy of yours, Paladin," said Olo, "and maybe he'll grow up to be like my Sancho."

Sancho sat in the corner eating his fill of apple slices then spat out the apple skins he wasn't able to chew onto the floor. Paladin eyed the child, shaking his head. The boy stuck his tongue out at the grown-up. Paladin clucked his tongue and whispered, "Good heavens above, I hope not." When he looked back, thankfully Olo and the Tinderwoods were already engaged in their own conversation.

As Paladin opened the shop door to exit, Pippin peered over his papa's shoulder gazing at the mean boy, then stuck his tongue out at Sancho. Pippin wasn't happy with Sancho sticking his tongue out at his papa, and such is the communication between three-year-olds.

The End


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **All Hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien.

**Characters: **Pippin, Paladin.

**Just Us Lads**

Whitwell, Astron, 1400, S.R.

Pippin sat upon his bed busying himself with counting and shining his ever-increasing marble collection scattered on the bed in his bedroom. Recovering from a long nap to regain his strength from a recent head cold, Pippin poured himself a glass of water to clear his head. Something felt amiss. He let one of his newest shooters roll down the mattress "hill" toward his leg as the growing silence demanded his attention, the other remained in his hand. He became more and more aware that the whole smial was filled with quiet. No laughter, no arguing…no lasses. _This isn't right_, he said to himself. Leaving his colourful little treasures for the moment, Pippin rose up from his bed.

The ten-year-old lad walked deeper into the hallway looking into each of his sisters' bedrooms. All the rooms were empty of their residents, however, the beds were made, and the clothes folded neatly and set inside their wardrobes. Then the scent of sweet-smelling roses on midsummer's eve tickled his nose.

Pippin recalled that his mother and sisters owned a vast amount of the expensive rose water, purchasing a month's supply at a time while at the market in Tuckborough, then dabbed it on sparingly at a moment's notice. Each sister--and his mother--had their own reason to daub themselves with the rose-water, yet Pippin surmised that it all boiled down to ensnaring a lad. _Except _for his dear mother, of course; Eglantine had already caught her lad over twenty five years ago.

Not finding any of the lasses about, Pippin decided to stroll out to his father's study--it was so quiet that he began to worry if his father was indeed home from the fields. Just before he reached the doorway, Pippin heard the ruffling of a page turning. He leaned against the doorjamb watching his father smooth out the page of a book in the soft candlelight. Pippin smiled when he recognized the familiar green binding: _The Memoirs of Bandobras Took_, written by Bandobras Took. The young lad and his father shared many interests, one of them being their distant author/cousin. Both admired his bravery and courage in the Battle of Greenfield.

Sensing another presence nearby, Paladin looked up toward the doorway, seeing his young son standing there. "Hullo, Pip," he spoke softly in greeting. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Papa. Where did they go?"

"Where did who go?"

"Momma and the lasses."

"It's just us lads tonight," said Paladin, then smiled lovingly at his son. "That is, until round nine o'clock or so. Your cousin Teasel Banks is having her first Ladies' Tea. Dahlia left us a pot of stew on the fire--the lasses talked her into accompanying them."

Pippin quietly smiled at the notion of '_just us lads'_. Yes, also remembered the hasty invitation that arrived the day before. "I like that."

Paladin raised his eyebrows in wonder, "You like what? The idea of a ladies' tea?"

Pippin smiled again, knowing his papa was having a jest. "No!" laughed the youngster. He sat down on the couch, snuggling up to his father. "I mean that I like it that the lasses will be gone until much later."

Paladin kissed his son's curls then draped his arm around Pippin's slim shoulders. "They're your sisters Pip," said Paladin, gently reminding the young lad with a tender squeeze on his arm. "But I do like to spend time with just us lads, Pippin."

Pippin said nothing in reply--he didn't need to. His facial expression gave away his true feelings in addition to nuzzling closer to his papa. At once the aroma of Old Toby filled his nostrils; Pippin knew that the familiar brown leather pouch rested just underneath his nose deep inside the breast pocket of his papa's waistcoat. The smell of pipe smoke always brought warm memories of his father that would last until Pippin took his last breath on this side of the Grey Curtain.

"What is that in your hand?" asked Paladin.

"My newest Shooter," Pippin replied holding it up for his father to see. "I had a lucky game last Mersday and won it from Tom Woolfoot."

"Old Rob's youngest son," mused Paladin. "He's almost Merry's age, isn't he?"

Pippin nodded, basking in his papa's attention. "He's sixteen, Papa."

"Perhaps it wasn't luck, Pip. I think your diligence of practicing with Merry this past month paid off."

_This night would be perfect if Merry was here_, Pippin thought to himself. "Papa?"

"Hmm?"

"May we read about Bandobras together?"

"You've read this book countless times, Pip. Wouldn't you rather polish your marbles?"

"No…I would rather sit here with you for a while--that is, if you don't mind."

Paladin smiled. "I don't mind at all. Shall we start at the beginning? I've only read six pages so far..."

On into the evening the lads took turns reading passages from the adventures (and misadventures) of Bandobras Took. It was just the lads.

The End


	3. Chapter 3

Challenge 32: A cheery fire, Pippin's room, Esmeralda, and Denethor

Summary: On one particularly bad night, Pippin asks for company.

Disclaimer: All hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien, but in my dreams, they belong to me. Besides, nobody in their right mind would pay me for this.

Beta: Marigold

****

Stay With Me

Mid-Afteryule, 1420, Crickhollow, Buckland

Esmeralda balanced the tea tray she held upon one upraised knee whilst giving a brief knock and then quickly twisted the door handle of a certain lad's bedroom with her freed hand. Once the door was ajar, she deftly took hold of the remaining tray handle so as not to drop it. Esmeralda had done this same task for her own son an hour ago to help ease his heart in order to fall asleep. But just as she was about to retire to the guest room at Crickhollow, she heard the stirrings of yet another young fellow inside his room.

When Merry and Pippin couldn't get to the Hall, she and her husband Saradoc visited the lads every week or so to let them know family was always nearby who loved them, although there were times that Sara's duties as Master of the Hall would interfere with those visits. On this day, Esmeralda walked the short distance herself bringing with her fresh bread and blackberry preserves to complement the lovely meals they would share. Most times, they would all sit for hours in front of the hearth exchanging news about friends or relatives.

Esmeralda intended to head back to Brandy Hall round two o'clock, however, the weather had other plans. A cold, wintry rain hindered her departure, and when it refused to let up the lads decided that their mum and auntie would spend the night. Merry knew that his father would deduce such a situation and not worry overmuch about his dear wife.

Presently, at the bidding of her nephew, Esmeralda entered Pippin's bedroom. She stopped when her Tookish eyes fixed upon a solitary lad sitting unnaturally rigid on his settle in front of the hearth. The lad made no move to greet his auntie; instead, the tweenager stared vacantly into the depths of the roaring fire.

"Pippin!" Esmeralda called to her nephew. She hastily placed the tray down on the desk.

Esmeralda understood the draw fire had for her nephew. He had recounted to his family of Lord Denethor, whom he swore fealty and service to, why he did so, and finally, the sad death of the ruling Steward. Esmeralda knew there was something in those horrific memories that would cause Pippin to fall into these bad spells.

At the sound of his auntie's familiar voice, the tweenager abruptly turned his dazed expression toward her, twisting in his seat as if to pull his gaze away from whatever it was that he saw in the flames.

Esmeralda sat down beside her young nephew. "Pippin--it's your Aunt Essie!"

Esmeralda would not touch the lad; Merry had already warned her and Saradoc to never take hold of him or Pippin should they encounter either one during a "phase", as Merry would refer to the ugly dreams that often plagued them whether awake or asleep.

With a start, Pippin covered his eyes with his hands, breathing intensely as if he had just finished a race.

Esmeralda watched over the tween as he slowly calmed down.

"I suppose I was dreaming," Pippin finally said after a minute.

Esmeralda felt awkward, feeling as if she had intruded upon the lad. "Then you must have been talking in your dream. I thought you gave me leave to enter."

Finished rubbing his weary eyes, Pippin inhaled and let out a deep breath, looking about the room. "That's all right, Auntie." He seemed a wee bit embarrassed, and he obviously understood his aunt to be feeling the same. "I am glad that you're here."

Pippin reached over to touch his auntie's hand, and then he said in a soft whisper, "Please stay with me."

Esmeralda covered Pippin's hand with her own. "Of course I will," she answered in the same soft voice. Esmeralda gave the tween a brave smile to ease his heart. "I brought in some tea. Would you like me to fix you a cup?"

Pippin still seemed a bit shaken, and returned her smile with difficulty. He nodded, "Please."

"Do you still take milk and honey in your tea?" She asked, pouring a little milk inside his cup, anticipating his answer.

"Yes, thank you."

She next poured in the hot tea and stirred in the honey, handing him his cup. "This ought to help you relax."

"But I don't want to relax," said Pippin, his eyes averted, gazing mournfully at his cup. He stared at the wisps of tealeaves spinning round inside the brown depths.

Esmeralda's heart filled with compassion for her brother's child. Although he was no longer a child, so to speak, Pippin certainly resembled one at the moment. Even by hobbit standards, Pippin was yet a juvenile. "You don't have to if you don't want, my dear."

For a few minutes they sat together in silence when Esmeralda decided to try to bring the lad out of his melancholy.

"Tell me about your Journey, Pippin," she said.

Pippin's eyes darted to his aunt. "But I already have."

"Not all of it," said Esmeralda, lifting the lad's chin. "Surely there were things that you saw or experienced in the Outlands that gave you _good _memories. I'd like to hear more about those." Pleased with her quick thinking, Esmeralda sat back in the cushions of the settle and smiled.

Pippin arched his eyebrows in thought. "Well...," he began slowly, "Lothlórien was beautiful. There are flowers called Elanor and Niphredil, both beautiful to behold. It is full of Mallorn trees that are tall with bark of silver--and in the winter, their leaves turn a pale gold. The Elves there build platforms in their trees, called _talons_. We actually slept on a _talon _the first night!"

"My word!" said Esmeralda, hiding her shock. "Up so high in the air?"

"I wasn't frightened at all," said Pippin, warming up to his tale. The cheery fire in the hearth just added to his drama. "Merry feared that he would roll off once he went to sleep. But we were all quite safe!" Pippin quickly added the last bit to put his auntie at ease, she knew. He obviously could tell that the talon was unsettling to his auntie by the blanched expression she could not keep from her face. And she could tell that he wasn't quite being truthful.

Esmeralda couldn't imagine such a wondrous--and unnerving--sight; the Mallorns and flowers were wonderous, the talons were what unnerved her. Esmeralda had plenty of Took blood running through her veins, however, the thought of her son and kin sleeping on what she presumed to be nothing more than a bird's nest caught her heart in her throat. Dare she further encourage the tween? Of course, she would! For her Tookish blood yearned for more.

"So...you weren't frightened at all?" she asked him nonchalantly.

Rather than rescind his earlier fib, Pippin divulged just a smidgen of the truth. "Well, maybe just a _little_."

After a moment's thought, Pippin continued his recount of happier memories. "I rode a _horse_, Aunt Essie! The Chief of his kind, no less: the _Mearas_. Shadowfax is his name. He needs no bridle or saddle, and he will bear no one unless he consents to carry them. And bear them he does! When we were in the City, Gandalf asked me to care for him during the times that he couldn't." He went on to tell her about Sadowfax's speed and agility.

"How marvellous!" said Esmeralda. Though the _reason _why she asked Pippin to embark on his tales never left the back of her mind, she nonetheless was captured by the young storyteller. Pippin was good at his craft!

"What is the City like?" she asked him, her curiosity making her feel like a young lass again.

Pippin was more than ready to comply with his answer. He described the grandeur of the City made of stone, and the faults of neglect. He spoke of the effects of war; the damage to the buildings and then the solidarity of the citizens to rebuild it. He described the inns, the house he shared with his companions, the new foods he had tried, and all of the memories of good things that she knew would stay with him until he drew his last breath.

"And the sunsets!" Pippin said, interrupting his own yarn. "Clouds aflame with pink and golden hues against the backdrop of blue."

On and on, further into the night, aunt and nephew exchanged question for answer. Esmeralda knew the tween was sparing her the grisly bits or anything he considered too terrible for his auntie to bear, and she was astute enough to skirt certain issues.

Finally, in the darkest hour before dawn, Pippin's energy flagged. His voice became hoarse. The pauses between sentences increased with every breath he took. He gazed out his window into the black void of night, watching...waiting.

As for Esmeralda, she, too, had felt the effect of missing needed sleep. She had forged on in spite of the fact her eyes felt swollen and a five-pound weight attached to their lids. But now, she sensed Pippin's growing distress.

"Come here, Pippin," said Esmeralda with an outstretched arm.

Pippin stiffened. "I am not going to sleep yet, Auntie."

"I didn't say you _had _to sleep, Pippin. Just relax here for a bit." She placed a small cushion upon her lap.

Pippin's body had gradually given up; as if it knew that evading sleep was always a losing battle anyway. He leaned his sleepy head upon the pillow, clearly dreading the nightmares that seemed inevitable. The young lad curled up on the settle beside his aunt, feeling her fingers tenderly smoothing his curls toward the back of his head. Pippin must miss his own mother doing this when he had bad dreams. Esmeralda felt him relaxing and smiled softly.

"You were always like a second mother to me," Pippin mumbled.

"And you were always like a second son," Esmeralda whispered, kissing his brow. Her young nephew already breathed deeply.

__

The End


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer Hobbits and the rest of Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien.

_"And with that word she held them with her eyes, and in silence looked searchingly at each of them in turn. None save Legolas and Aragorn could long endure her glance." _- Lothlórien, FOTR, By JRR Tolkien.

A/N: Mind-to-mind conversation, or mere thoughts, are in italics

**The Lady's Offer**  
By Pippinfan

The Lady Galadriel gazed hard at Legolas, Gimli, then Frodo, Sam, and now Merry. Pippin's heart quickened knowing that he was next in line. What was going on between the silent stares? As the Lady looked into their eyes, each member of the Fellowship seemed momentarily transfixed, as if under a spell. Pippin could see it in their eyes. When released from her gaze, his fellow hobbits each had various expressions on their face. Poor Frodo appeared to have had a heavier weight placed upon his already burdened shoulders. Sam blushed redder than an August sunset. When Galadriel held Merry's eyes, his cousin looked as if he were weighing the odds of a most serious decision, then his countenance visibly relaxed as she unbound him from her piercing gaze. Pippin braced himself for whatever awaited him.

As Galadriel fixed her gaze on the young hobbit, Pippin found himself instantly lost in pools of blue. Any awareness he had of the others was gone. It was just he and the Lady facing one another. Pippin heard the Lady speak to him without moving her lips.

_"What choice shall I offer you, Peregrin Took of the Shire?"_

"My La--" Pippin started, then stopped; his own voice sounding loud and uncouth to his hearing.

Pippin didn't quite understand what the Lady meant. _Choice? _

Without hesitation she answered, _"Yes, I will set before you a choice. You must choose which road you will travel." _

She could hear his thoughts! Pippin realized that his innermost thoughts were laid open to her--his mind as bare as he was on the day he was born. There were no secrets. Pippin fought the urge to cover himself though he knew he was still wearing clothes. _"Travel? To where?" _he asked in like manner.

The Lady clarified her previous question. _"If given the opportunity, would you turn away from the Quest and return to your homeland?" _

Pippin sighed in despair, still held in her gaze. How he missed the Shire! Pippin answered simply, _"No, my Lady." _

Galadriel took her question yet further. _"Would you, turn aside from the Quest if it meant that Gandalf would be brought back to life?"_

Gandalf/i Pippin's eyes welled with tears as his heart once again filled with terrible grief.

Galadriel was pleased with the young Took's revealing cry. She spoke softly,

Pippin sighed heavily as he mulled over his trek through the dark mountain with the old wizard--and quite forgot that the Lady could "hear" his deliberations.

It all started with the pebble he threw into the bottomless well then ended with Gandalf plunging to his death as he fought to protect the Fellowship. With his folly in mind, Pippin wondered why he hadn't been sent back to Rivendell--or the Shire before now. She had to know! The Lady must know that what happened in Moria was his fault--why else would _she_ give him the opportunity to go home? _Gandalf--alive! _After a moment, his bright green eyes shone with excitement at the prospect of seeing the beloved wizard living again--leading the Company forward. The young lad imagined victory with Gandalf was as certain as tomorrow's sunrise, feeling quite sure that the rest of his companions felt the same way. Pippin would give anything to bring Gandalf back again! He would jump at the chance to be able to rectify his wrong in being so careless. But going back to the Shire would mean…

Pippin felt a lump of emotions rising in his throat. Indeed, there was a choice to be made.

_"No, my Lady," _he finally answered. _"That would mean I'd have to abandon Frodo--my kinsman and friend." _Tears sprang from his eyes as he went on, forsaking his one and only chance to bring Gandalf back to life. _"I will not leave my cousin alone as he walks towards Mordor--I will follow him to the ends of Middle-earth. I've said once before that--"_

Galadriel interrupted him, _"I know what it is that you told Elrond." _Then she smiled, _"and it delights me to know that Frodo has valiant young friends to help him on his journey. Go in peace, Peregrin Took of the Shire." _

Pippin blinked his eyes a few times, gradually growing aware again of his surroundings on the flet. The entire Fellowship remained standing before the Lord and Lady in exactly the same place they stood moments before he fell under her gaze. Wiping his eyes, Pippin breathed a sigh of relief.

Merry exchanged a knowing look with young cousin, nodding his satisfaction to Pippin. He, too, rejected the Lady's offer. They both had passed the test.

_The End_


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Hobbits are not mine, but belong to JRR Tolkien.  
Summary: Bilbo, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin are all in Rivendell discussing the wonders of tales.

**LIVING TALES  
**By Pippinfan

"You don't see these in the Shire," Pippin remarked, gaping in wonder at the majestic mountains looming to the east of Rivendell. He and the rest of the hobbits sat upon a bench made out of stone within the same porch that they met a healing Frodo the day before. "They even have snow up there--see?" He pointed towards the uppermost peaks.

"And just listen to the river!" added Merry. The hobbits were silent; ears intent on the thunderous sounds below them.

Sam tried his best not to appear callow, however, it was extremely difficult whilst sitting in the shadows of the tall mountains. He spoke softly, "I wish my Gaffer could see this."

The eldest of the little group sat beside one another at the far end of the bench, smiling at the effect the beautiful scenery had on the younger set. Without warning, Pippin jumped up and cupped his hands to his mouth, "HULLOOOOO!" The mountains replied a multitude of greetings in return.

"Sit down, lad," said Bilbo to Pippin, slightly embarrassed at the glances of passing elves.

"You're asking for the impossible, Bilbo," said Merry with a wry grin. As another round of bantering went on, Frodo stared pensively at the distant pine trees; he imagined himself weaving in and out of the fragrant, green woodlands, all cares removed from his tired shoulders. For the faraway, fantastical Frodo out tramping on the mountainside there was no Ring…no Council…just _rest_.

Watching the resident tweenager twitter about the parapet, Bilbo couldn't remember the young Took so rambunctious…well, not _this_ much anyway. He watched the lad sit, stand, turn about while pointing at the mountainscape then begin the cycle all over again. "How 'bout a story, eh?" he asked, though without much hope. A good story about his adventures always used to get the youngster to stop whatever he was doing…_twenty years ago_. However, Pippin was no longer the eleven-year-old child he knew before the Farewell Party years and years ago.

"A story?" asked Pippin, leaning against the stone rail. He wrinkled his nose in thought, then asked, "Why should you tell a story when the tale has found _you_? I mean, I rather thought we were _in_ one."

"That was Bilbo's way of nicely telling you to sit still," said Merry, his grin becoming wider. The twinkle in his blue eyes conveyed his jest.

"Was not," said Pippin in response, then resumed leaning upon the balustrade, gazing out over the expanse of the foothills below.

"Mr. Pippin has a point," said Sam. All eyes became focused on him.

"I do?" asked Pippin, fascinated that Sam agreed.

"We _are_ in a story…of sorts," Sam explained. His keen brown eyes passed over the breath-taking chasm, filling with wonder. "We're like those wee drawings of hobbit-folk that Mr. Merry used to scribble inside his study-books when he was a lad. I don't know about you, Mr. Frodo, but I feel like one of them. Here there are elves…and dwarves--and did you see the man from the land of the south? Now _he_ looks like a king if ever I saw one, dressed in all his fine clothes."

"_If ever_ is correct, Sam," quipped Merry. "We haven't had a king in ages, so we truly couldn't know what one looks like. But I understand what you're saying."

"His name is Boromir," said Frodo, his thoughts on the Council yesterday. "He comes from Minas Tirith--a city in Gondor."

"Is he indeed a king then?" Pippin queried, turning round to look at Frodo. The lad recalled the broad-shouldered Man he had met the day before after the secret meeting. He had dark hair and a glint in his silver eyes. Pippin smiled to himself, again seeing Boromir walking away from him and Merry in the halls of the Last Homely House yesterday--after they ran into each other. The man's gait and bearing full of confidence--something that Pippin felt he himself lacked. He remembered Boromir wearing raiment the hue of amethyst, and a leather baldric that held a sword almost bigger than the young hobbit himself. Pippin imagined the lordly man wielding it with his mighty arm. If anyone could be a valiant king, the young impressionable Took felt it should be Boromir. Aragorn had a distinguished manner about him as well, however, it was of a different sort. Many cares and worries left the weary Ranger swift with harsh words for young, impetuous tweenagers if provoked. Even though Pippin and Merry both ran directly into the man from the south the day before, the man did not grow angry with them; instead, he knelt down on one knee and pardoned himself, explaining that his mind was elsewhere and did not see the smaller folk walking the same path…and then he smiled kindly at them. Pippin would remember that meeting for the rest of his life.

"No," Frodo answered his young cousin slowly. "He is not a king, though I believe his father is the lord of the land from where he comes."

"Well," said Merry, recovering from the notion of nearly running down whom he considered royalty yesterday. "As Sam said, we're not listening to one of Bilbo's stories; we're in our own right now. It's one thing to sit as a lad and listen about dwarfs that live far and away, but to actually sit next to one while eating at a feast hosted by the very elf Bilbo met long ago while on his adventure…it's all incredible."

Bilbo smiled as he sat next to his own dear lad, remembering all the times Frodo begged for these same stories while growing up at Brandy Hall. Now Frodo was embarking on his own adventure…while living for a bit within Bilbo's. He looked at Frodo, heaviness settled upon the old hobbit in anticipation of his heir's pending journey.

"What are you thinking?" Frodo asked, noticing Bilbo gawping at him.

"Of you, my lad," Bilbo replied, gently squeezing Frodo's hand. "And how your own tale will end."

"I've imagined several--none of which are happy," Frodo said with sarcasm.

Bilbo laughed, "You told me that yesterday!" Then he grew serious, "But I don't believe it. I _won't_ believe it. I have thought up an ending for your tale: …_And he returned to the Shire to live in peace forever_. How's that?"

Frodo hoped that he would merely survive the Quest, let alone the tale. However, he smiled lovingly at his dear uncle and answered, "That will do."

The sombre discussion was interrupted by the ringing of many bells. Relieved to shirk the depressing conversation for a while, Frodo stood to his feet, "Seems it is time for yet another delicious meal." The rest if the hobbits followed suit, except Pippin lingered for a bit at the balustrade surveying the breath-taking scenery.

Merry turned as he walked beside Sam, "Hurry up, Peregrin, or we shan't wait for you!" Pippin took one last glimpse before scurrying after his friends.

x x x x

The sound of the crisp paper turning in his hand brought the young hobbit out of the past and into the present. He could tell the time was nearing luncheon; the aroma of baking bread and roasting meats filled his nostrils, making his stomach growl. His efforts to concentrate enough to finish the last couple of pages became useless when he heard the ringing of many bells.

"Time for lunch, Faramir." Thain Peregrin I of the Shire popped his head into the library to call his son to the midday meal, then saw the book in Faramir's hand. "Is that one of the books you brought on the trip? Which one are you reading?"

The sixteen year old turned the leather cover in his hand to better read it. "Living Tales", replied the lad, still absorbed with his attempt to finish the last few lines.

"Your Uncle Merry, Kali, and I are all going ahead to the dining hall. We'll walk slowly, but hurry up, or we shan't wait for you. The elves of Rivendell are not used to waiting on hobbits." With that, Pippin sauntered down the hallway to catch up to Merry and his son…smiling.

The End


	6. Chapter 6

Your elements are:

A skeleton

Estella

A lore master

Disclaimer: All hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien, but in my dreams, they belong to me. I get no money for my tales; nobody in their right mind would pay me for them.

Summary: Frodo is in attendance at one of Merry and Pippin's notorious post-Quest parties and is in rare form to tell a story never heard before by his audience.

A/N: My Muse led me to do some research about a typical part of the year that entails ghosts and spirits of the dead. I came across a Feast called, "Oidhche Shamhna", otherwise known as Samhain. In short, it tells of the simple customs of this feast and how they came about. I found it very interesting, but also found it daunting to create a story utilising everything I learnt about it _because _I wanted to write about it all. In the end I decided to keep it simple -- like me, lol. I am providing links to the sites that I visited in hope that someone else will take an interest and have a go at it.

While musing this tale, I came upon the thought (probably not an original idea, but oh well) that Frodo had to have known for quite some time that he wouldn't grow old in the Shire. Thus, the title, "The Year of Departure" was born, feeling Frodo probably behaved much like he did before the Quest. In spite of weathering illnesses, he spent his last year in the Shire trying to gather as many memories of his loved ones to take him into the West.

Beta: Marigold and Llinos. Thank you both for your expertise and your patience.

****

The Year of Departure: Summer's End

Crickhollow, Buckland, 30 Winterfilth 1420, S.R.

"Pip!" Merry called to his cousin once more. Pippin sat on the sofa beside a lovely young lass engaged in light conversation with her. In his hands, Merry balanced a tray of tankards overflowing with beer for the party guests. "We need the apples! There's a sack of them in the cellar -- and don't forget to wash them first."

Merry loathed interrupting the lad's cosy conversation, but there were guests to attend to. Together they were hosting a Summer's End party and were kept busy with various requests for more beer, more party fare, or more fruitcake. The fruitcake, a Summer's End tradition, was rather popular because of the brandy Estella had added to her recipe.

"All right, all right," Pippin grumbled good-naturedly, then rose to perform his task. "I'll be right back," he smiled to the comely maiden still sitting on the sofa. "Can't have a Summer's End Party without dunking for apples."

Just before he turned to walk away, Pippin observed Frodo sitting all alone on the other side of the room. Pippin looked over the party room; Fredegar sat in the opposite corner listening to a group of lads talking, Merry and he were busy being hosts, but where was Sam? Would he not keep his master company with simple conversation? He went over to Frodo and then carefully leant over the back of the chair, asking him of Sam's whereabouts.

"He took Rosie to their bedroom," Frodo answered casually, then returned to his people-gazing.

To Pippin, there was something in his cousin's eyes that made him wonder what sort of temperament Frodo was in; whether he was lonely for company, or genuinely wanted to be left alone. Not being able to read Frodo unnerved Pippin to no end.

Pippin felt he knew Frodo almost as well as he knew Merry, however, he had noticed of late that their eldest cousin did seem to have a melancholy about him, or perhaps he was just pensive, but mostly he seemed sad. Pippin thought perhaps a bit of humour might help; before the Quest one of his witty remarks would often set Frodo to laughing...well, that was _before _the Quest.

Pippin bent closer to Frodo and whispered into to his ear, "We know they're married and all, but you really must to speak to Sam about his and Rosie's party habits. Running off so quickly to the bedroom sets a bad example for us tweenagers."

Frodo looked away from Pippin, but the tween caught the hint of a smile. When Frodo turned his face back to his younger cousin, his countenance was more composed, though a sparkle still gleamed in his eyes. Frodo took Pippin's hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. He wanted to remember the warm touch of the lad's slender hands. "I hope you plan to behave yourself this evening. Merry and I can't be child-minders with all of these guests around."

"That's all right," laughed Pippin. "I'll just mind myself!"

"That's what I'm worried about."

"Truly, Frodo," Pippin implored sincerely, "are you feeling well?"

Frodo mustered an amiable smile to comfort his friend. "I am feeling well, thank you. But Rosie is another matter." Frodo raised a finger to his lips to convey secrecy. "They want to give you, Merry, and Fredegar a surprise later."

Pippin raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief and smiled. "A surprise? I doubt _that _would be a surprise to anyone who knows them. When is the bairn due?"

"Hush, Pippin! We shall let them be the ones to make any announcements," said Frodo.

"Very well," said Pippin, resigned to the fact that he now had a "secret" to keep for the rest of the night. He imagined the difficulty he would have this evening while trying to contain his joy for Sam and Rosie before the big "shocker".

Pippin fetched the apples from the cellar, washed them as instructed, and then joined his cousins and friends with alternately dunking their heads into the barrel for the prize apple. It was customary for one apple to have coins pressed into it as an additional reward for the catch. In the end, it was Menthe who won the treasured fruit.

Next, there was the entertainment; the evening; tradition held that performing something artful would appease the shadows, the spirits of the dead. Pippin chose to sing a song, as did most of the other guests, but there was also poetry, musical instruments, and dancing. Merry did something different this year in that he offered to sketch anyone who would be a willing subject. He was a skilled artist, quick with a piece of charcoal in his hand.

Before all was said and done, Merry had unconsciously sketched the face of Frodo, Pippin, Sam, Fredegar, and himself all on one parchment. Merry had no notion what moved him to draw this picture of the five of them, but he did it anyway.

Frodo was impressed, as always. "What a wonderful talent you have, my dear cousin," he said to Merry. "I think that is one of the best examples of your work."

"You can have it, Frodo," offered Merry without any forethought.

"Really?" asked an astonished Frodo.

"Really! I'd be delighted if you took it, Cousin," Merry replied, quite pleased with his own handiwork and basking in Frodo's appreciation of his craft.

Frodo possessed other samples of Merry's drawings that he had been given over the years, but none matched this particular picture in detail or beauty. This was indeed Merry's best effort, and Frodo knew what he would do with this gift. He took the portrait from his cousin, his eyes brimming with tears. "Thank you, Merry. I shall treasure this forever." Fortunately, no one caught the undercurrent of his last remark.

Much later in the evening, when the exuberance of the party began to die down, the attention of the guests turned to other activities. By this time many had already left for the night. Mostly it was Merry's closer related cousins who stayed for the pleasure of company. At length, it was Celandine who suggested ghost stories.

"Oh, please tell us one, Merry!" she said eagerly. "You Travellers were in the Outlands for over a year -- you must have seen something to make a ghost story out of."

"Are you sure you want a ghost story?" Pippin asked uneasily. "I can think of other fun things to celebrate Summer's End."

"No!" came the general consensus from the younger set. Celandine spoke up again. "Summer's End is the beginning of darkness, shadows and spirits, Pippin. We don't want to hear about kings and princes this time."

Pippin looked at his fellow Travellers for support. He saw no concern or anxiety in their eyes though he himself never really enjoyed ghost stories. Pippin thought to steer the party guests back towards parlour games, music, or dancing. He started to rise from his chair to fetch his violin, but then heard Frodo speak up.

"This night isn't only about shadows and spirits, Cellie," said Frodo, obviously encouraging the atmosphere. Everyone's eyes turned towards him.

"What else is Summer's End about?" she asked, baiting her cousin. "Please don't tell us that it's all about the fruitcake!" Light laughter emitted around the room at hearing her witty remark.

"Actually," said Frodo, his face a portrait of utter seriousness. "It's about dunking for apples." The guests erupted in more laughter.

"And all this time I thought it was the beer!" Merry quipped. In addition to his own curiosity being piqued, Frodo seemed to be enjoying himself, which was something Merry had hoped to see tonight. Frodo had learnt from the best in how to tell a great story.

While the laughter resounded in the room, Sam and Rosie came out of their bedroom to thank their hosts and to bid everyone a good night. Apparently, the ride to Buckland had worn out Rosie more than they thought it would. Finally, they made their big announcement to the delight of all present.

Frodo looked over to Pippin, giving him a wink. Pippin responded with a wry grin; he had kept Sam and Rosie's secret safe.

After the couple returned to their bedroom and the laughter and chatter of the guests died down, the former subject did not change as Pippin had hoped. Frodo continued his point.

"I've sat at the feet of some very notable lore masters," he said, "who gave me an account of what they believe began as what hobbits now know as _Summer's End_, which includes many of our traditions along with...well, evil spirits and shadows."

"Who, may I ask, are these lore masters you speak of?" asked Celandine's brother, Ilberic.

Frodo was glad that someone requested names, names always proved useful in validating a story. "Gandalf the wizard, for one. Lord Elrond of Rivendell, and Thranduil, King of the Elves of Northern Mirkwood. Are these names suitable to you, Ric?"

The folks of Buckland were well aware of the wizard and his talents as a maker of firecrackers and old stories. Elrond and Thranduil, some knew from Bilbo's tales. Ilberic sagely nodded his approval.

"Tell us _everything_, Cousin Frodo!" said Celandine. Enthusiastically, she left her chair then grabbed a floor pillow to sit at Frodo's feet. "Don't leave one bit out!"

"Very well," said Frodo, and then asked for more tea. Storytellers need much to drink in order to keep the tongue lubricated. Tea, beer, other fermented drinks, and water, have all been useful for this task. Frodo went on, "On our homeward journey we stopped in Rivendell. While there I had the opportunity to listen as Lord Elrond related to me some history that he and King Thranduil observed of hobbits that most are not aware of."

With all attention on him, Frodo spoke in a low, calming voice, as is tradition when telling tales with an eerie feel to them.

"It all happened hundreds of years ago, before Fallohides became a wandering people and settled in the Shire. As our own annals tell us, the Fallohides were the ones to cross the mountains north of Rivendell. King Thranduil had observed their growth as a people, and then Lord Elrond watched as they took the long journey across the mountains. With hobbits coming to the forefront in recent years, Lord Elrond and King Thranduil put pieces of our puzzle together. It was Lord Elrond who related to me the events that I am about to tell you.

"He mentioned to me that The Greenwood, now known as Mirkwood, was probably where the Fallohides were first known to live. During that time the hobbits dealt much with the Wood Elves; in fact, it was the Wood Elves who taught the hobbits to play music, hunt, and many other skills that have great worth in our society.

"After a time, however, shadows and dark things had taken hold over Mirkwood and began to intensify over the years. The hobbits started to hear evil whispers in the night, the trees moaning and creaking without so much as a wisp of a breeze. Children were frightened of the trees, adults moved about in groups; no one dared to venture deep into the woodland alone. Folks became uneasy, moving away further and further north and out of the Greenwood. It wasn't long before they had removed themselves altogether from the immediate area. One family, going by the name of Shavun, unwisely lingered behind."

Frodo paused in his tale to take a sip of freshly brewed tea. This served to increase the his listeners' interest, and also to hide the grin that so badly wanted to form on his lips. He looked over the faces of the guests all around the room, each one appeared engrossed in his story. Not one word was spoken among them during the brief respite; it was as if the spell would be broken. The expression on young Celandine's face, a combination of wonder and dismay, almost set Frodo to laughing.

Setting down his teacup, Frodo continued. "One day, the eldest son wandered into the woods all alone. Why he did so no one knows to this day, but he apparently ventured too far and got lost. He never returned home. For a very long time his family looked for him. They even enlisted the aid of hobbits that had moved a great distance from the Wood. Weeks later they found his body under a tall tree, nearly degraded to a skeleton by that time."

At this part, the faces of Frodo's audience winced.

"The hobbits believed the lad had been lured into the woods by some evil creature and then was murdered."

"Probably by a wicked Troll!" said Doderic.

"Hush, Dody!" Celandine said impatiently. "I want to hear this."

Frodo waited until he had their undivided attention before resuming his story. He let his gaze shift to his favourite cousins, Pippin and Merry; each had a mischievous gleam in his eyes. Frodo ignored them, moving on with his tale.

"Meanwhile, the evil whispers heard within Mirkwood increased and drew nearer to the northern borders of the Wood. Oftentimes the hobbits sensed the presence of evil trying to lure other young or unwary hobbits into its snare. Now very frightened, the Fallohide hobbits held a Moot to see about avenging the lad's death. It was decided that the following evening they'd go into the woodland and seek out the vile creature who'd carry out such a malicious deed on a young hobbit.

"Deeper and deeper they walked into the thick forest armed with torches and bows and arrows. Dark, it was, full of strange noises and scents. Each one stepped carefully and as silent as any hobbit could. No sooner had they reached a clearing than they spied a tall goblin, grotesque in appearance, half hidden behind a large tree trunk.

'Come out and show yourself, coward,' said the hobbit leader.

'I'll come out all right!' the goblin replied to the hobbit, and then --

LEAPT towards them, grabbing one of the hobbits by the leg!" Frodo shouted the last part, and then with snake-like reflexes grabbed Doderic's leg and began pulling hard with it. "Just as I'm pulling yours now!"

Quite surprised, Doderic jumped out of his skin and yelped, while Celandine shrieked backing away from the commotion.

Pippin and Merry roared with laughter as did some of the other guests, although the guests laughed more out of confusion.

"Oh, you!" Celandine shouted. "Did any of that really happen?"

"Only the part where the Fallohide hobbits probably lived among the Elves of the Woodland Realm for a time before crossing the mountains. The rest I sort of made up, although there truly was evil lurking in the _southern _region of Mirkwood."

"I'll never believe another tale of lore told by you ever again," Ilberic laughed.

Once again, Frodo scanned the room, taking in all of the jollity, the laughs, and the smiles of his dearest friends. He gave a playful wink to Merry and Pippin, committing their happy faces to memory.

One of his last tales had been told.

__

Until next time...


	7. Chapter 7

Written for Marigold's Tale Challenge 43.

Elements are:

A carriage  
Hamfast  
A prince

Disclaimer: All hobbits and creatures from Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien, but in my dreams they belong to me. Nobody in their right mind would give me money for my tales.

Summary: Rosie puts her creative talents to work in easing the tears of an ill child.

Beta: Marigold

**A Stitch in Time**

Bag End, Hobbiton, Halimath, 1437

Bag End was full of life and brimming with children the night before Hobbiton and Bywater's Summer Fair was to begin. The Mayor, the Thain, and the Master of Buckland were all in town heading the Fair committee for going over last minute details for the coming days. There were the contest prizes to discuss, games, auctions, and booths to sell crafts. The lads would be gone all day, so the ladies of the smial had twenty children to mind between the three of them while their husbands were at the fairgrounds.

Well, not exactly, as there were five teens present, so the older children helped to mind the younger ones while the very youngest and infants were in the kitchen with their mothers. In the parlour Kalimas and his sister Holly performed puppet shows to entertain the young ones, using the marionettes Merry had brought back from Minas Tirith the year before as gifts for his two eldest children.

Rosie, Diamond, and Estella sat at the kitchen table sipping tea and having a casual exchange about children, babies, husbands, and life in general. Intermittent peals of laughter could be heard coming from down the hallway. Inside the kitchen, little Bilbo sat in his baby chair at the table beside his mummy and one-year-old Heather sat in Diamond's lap; both toddlers content as they nibbled on toast. On the floor upon a blanket, two-year-old Primrose played with her toy blocks and rag dolls. The conversation took various turns of being comical in nature of family, to dramatic, or down to very honest. The tranquillity inside the kitchen was broken by the sight of a small lassie near tears wandering into the room.

Four-year-old Blossom walked straight towards her mother. "Mummy, I want a doll with strings, too," she said, then wiped her eyes.

"What's all this fuss, love?" asked Diamond. Bringing the child closer, she tenderly combed the wispy curls away from Blossom's forehead. "Why do you want a doll with strings, hmm?"

Blossom's voice broke as she spoke. "I -- I want to play with her."

"You must have plenty of dolls to play with at home, sweetie," said Estella in an attempt to help Diamond draw out the child's reasons.

"Not with strings," answered Blossom, then wiped away more tears.

"She says I can't play with her."

"She?" Diamond asked her young daughter. "Whom are you speaking of, Blossom?"

"Holly," Blossom replied.

"Holly can't let _anyone _hold her doll at the moment, not just you," Diamond explained. "She and Kali are using their dolls in the puppet show."

"They're _marionettes_," Estella quickly corrected her friend. She wanted to put to rest any doubts that hers and Merry's son was not one hundred percent lad.

"But I just want to touch her," Blossom complained, then put her thumb into her mouth.

Diamond looked at her companions around the table. "I think there's more to this than touching a doll with strings."

"Let me take the baby," Estella offered, reaching over Blossom's head to take Heather from Diamond. "We don't want her to catch anything."

"No, we don't," said Diamond, "Heather just had a cold last week; she must have passed it to Blossom."

Once the baby was safe with Estella, Diamond pulled the four-year-old onto her lap, giving Blossom's forehead the full treatment. "She's not warm, thank goodness, but she's been teary like this all day. I'm not going to take any chances -- I'm going to keep her away from the rest of the children. I don't want them catching anything."

Rosie winced, but she had to agree. "That's going t' be hard on her, poor thing."

Without warning, another small face appeared around the open door of the kitchen. "Blossom! You're missing it all! The prince is going t' save the maid in the dark tower."

_Prince_... Rosie had an idea. "Hamfast, take Primrose out with you to watch the puppets, then tell Ellie t' meet me in the far guest room. We'll need t' set it up for young Blossom -- she's not feeling very well. Then please fetch my sewin' bag from the laundry room and bring it t' the kitchen. We'll need a bit o' that woollen hose we got from the Queen's laundress, too."

Rosie took Bilbo to put him down for a nap, then ten minutes later she was back in the kitchen with her sewing bag and the woollen hose she had asked Hamfast to bring.

"What are you doing, Rosie?" asked Estella. She sat at the table holding baby Heather in her lap with one arm while stirring and cooling a tea concoction she had prepared for Blossom with the other.

Rosie grinned. "Just a little something Ellie and I learnt while among the Big-folk last year when the Queen made her a maid of honour. The laundress gave us the unwanted stockings when she saw our interest in making these. Gave us so much I thought it would weigh down the carriage!"

Everyone around the table watched in silence as Rosie worked quickly; she snipped the long stocking about halfway down the leg and then picked out two bright blue buttons. Next, she took some yellow wool, cutting it into short, equal lengths. She then threaded her needle and began the process of making... "It's a puppet," she said.

Estella laughed. "I thought as much! I suppose having feet attached to stockings would have its advantages when dealing with puppets."

Rosie slid her hand inside one stocking to use as an example. She tucked the toe-end inside her cupped hand to demonstrate the puppet's mouth. "The buttons will make the eyes, yarn will be the hair, and if Blossom decides her puppet is a princess, then I'll tack a bit of silver piping to make the circlet.

"Well, that is very creative," said Diamond. She paid attention to every detail of Rosie's work.

Rosie smiled. "Ellie and I saw the prince and his nurse playing with them and thought we'd give it a go." She had been busy as a bee while they talked and soon the puppet was finished, presenting it to little Blossom sitting in her Mummy's lap.

"What do you say, Blossom?" Diamond softly prompted her daughter's response.

Blossom held the puppet in her hands and smiled. "Thank you, Mistress Rosie." It was evident that the child had grown sleepy.

"What are you going to name it?" Estella asked.

"It's a _she_, Auntie Stella," said Blossom. "Her name...is Princess Ellie."

_The End_


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: All hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien, only in my dreams do they belong to me. ;-) I am not a professional writer, thus nobody in their right mind would ever offer me any money for this. I do it out of pure enjoyment.

Childrens Ages: Bonny 9, Faramir 7, Blossom 4, Heather 1. But the Reader can always adjust that to their own imagination.

**Grandmum's Button Box**

Great Smials, Winterfilth, 1437, S.R.

"There we are now, ladies," Diamond said to her little lasses, ushering two and carrying one into the parlour. All three were fresh from the bathing room wrapped snug in their thick dressing gowns. "Sit down in front of the hearth to dry your hair," Diamond instructed them. "Here's your baby sister," she leant down and set one-year-old Heather beside them. "And please don't plait her hair -- she doesn't have enough to do so yet."

Little Blossom sat wide-eyed next to her big sister; they had been caught in the act of plaiting Heather's hair earlier in the day. The eldest child and quite bold, Bonny merely shrugged. "Her hair plaits well enough, Mummy. She just needs lots of them all over her head."

Diamond gently lifted her daughter's chin, looking her directly in the eyes. "No plaiting."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Satisfied her daughter knew that she meant business, Diamond sat down beside her husband on the couch. Pippin was quietly puffing on his pipe with his nose buried deep in a book...and a smirk on his lips.

Diamond pinched his arm, "What's so funny?"

Pippin winced, but made no apologies. "Heather. She looked like one of Vinca's dolls when she was a little lass."

Before Diamond could retort on behalf of their littlest one, Faramir entered the parlour holding an old, but magnificently decorated wooden box. It was made of polished pine, and the lid had brocaded fabric tacked overtop. The brass latch in the front kept the contents within.

"Is this the box, Grandmum?" he asked.

"The very one," Eglantine replied, her hands held out to receive the item. "Thank you, my lad. Now, I'll need a little help with threading the needle, if you please. I wonder if there is a young lass about who may do the job well."

Bonny's hand shot up into the air excitedly. "I can do it, Grandmum! May I, please?"

"Very well, my dear," answered Eglantine, with a glance in Diamond's direction. With no objection from her daughter-in-law, she proceeded to give the implements to Bonny. "But be careful," she cautioned. She had always cautioned her own daughters in the same manner when they were around Bonny's age.

Next, Eglantine fumbled inside the box searching for the right sized button for her grandson. "This one will be perfect for you, Faramir! Now, love, step closer and hold out your arm so I can get a good look."

Diamond gave a questioning look to her husband beside her. "What's the matter?" she whispered.

Pippin took his pipe out of his mouth to better answer. "He lost a button," he whispered likewise, "and so Mother wants to fix it. She enjoys mending their things -- it gives her something to do."

Both parents watched as their children interacted with their grandmother. It had been three years since Pippin's father passed away, thus, Diamond reasoned that, at 101, her beloved mother-in-law would follow not too far in the future. Winter's chill was never a respecter of persons; when it left the Shire, it would take many elderly, young children, and the feeble along with it.

"May I have that button, Grandmum?" Faramir asked her.

Eglantine raised her wrinkled brow in thought. "Well...I suppose you could, but it would be the only gold button on your nightshirt."

Faramir held the shiny button in his hands, admiring it. "It belonged to Grandpapa, though. I remember seeing it on a jacket he wore."

Most of the buttons inside Eglantine's wooden box were bric-a-brac, not all, but most. Some were from garments her children had worn as wee ones, frocks her own mother and grandmother had owned, favourite shirts and jackets from her late husband, or coats that she and her family wore long ago. Eglantine's button box was practically a trove of treasures of every shape, size, colour, and texture. She knew each ones character and the story behind it.

Diamond held fast to Pippin's arm; not necessarily wondering what her mother-in-law's response would be, but her young Faramir was boldly asking to take something that was probably still a part of his grandmother's heart. Diamond trusted her mother-in-law completely and knew Eglantine would never crush the spirit of the lad, but still...

Eglantine smiled sadly at the bygone memories the brass button evoked. She replied quietly, "It did belong to your Grandpapa -- it came from his favourite green suit, you know. He had it made on the occasion of your own Papa's Coming of Age."

Young Faramir's eyes sparkled with his grandmother's account of his father's Coming of Age. Because of that, Faramir fancied the button he had chosen was something special to his grandfather. Yet even at the tender age of seven, the lad understood his grandmother's sorrow. Faramir missed his Grandpapa; he missed the walks in the garden paths or being pulled in a handcart through the garden.

Faramir placed the button back inside the box. "Then I can't have it?" he asked softly. It was more a statement than a question.

Bonny handed her grandmother the needle and thread, all ready to go. Eglantine took it, thanking her granddaughter.

"No, my dear lad," Eglantine said, her hand gently combing his remaining damp curls with her fingers. She took the gold button and pressed it back into his hand. "I want you to wear it -- wear it and remember your Grandpapa." Eglantine's smile was as wide as the one Faramir gave her in return.

She handed the button box to Bonny, and then quickly examined the lass's handiwork. "Good length for button-sewing -- very fine knot," she said, giving Bonny a wink.

Bonny beamed with pride. She started to go back to sit in front of hearth but then paused. "May we have a look in your button box, Grandmum?"

"Aye, you may," answered Eglantine, then immersed herself to the task of affixing the special button to Faramir's cuff.

Off to the side, sitting in front of the fireplace, two little lasses rummaged through what they considered priceless treasures. It became increasingly difficult to keep baby Heather from eating the valuables, so Bonny took her littlest sister to their mum to keep her out of harms way.

Soon, she and Blossom were laughing with delight at the beautiful gems and colourful art within the pretty box. At length, a beaded glass shank button the hue of bluebells caught Bonny's attention. She held it up to catch the light in the fireplace. "This one looks like a blue diamond. It must be worth a hundred silver pennies!"

Eglantine chuckled, making it difficult to aim the needle into the button hole. "No, my love. My own mother specifically chose four of those at the tailor shop to grace the blue coat she wore to her first social party after her Presentation -- the very party at which she met my father."

Eglantine proceeded to regale her young audience of the meeting and courtship of her mother and father, to the delight of the lasses, of course.

"What about this one, Grandmum?" asked Blossom. She wanted a story from Grandmum, too! The small lass held up a tiny round button, the colouring mother-of-pearl. "It's so pretty that a princess must have wore it!"

"Bring that closer, my dear," said Eglantine, squinting at the whitish object in Blossom's hand. "Oh! That came from a nightgown your Aunt Pearl wore when she was an infant." The child tried desperately to imagine her old Auntie so small and helpless.

At this point, and nigh unto eight o'clock, little Heather began to fuss, prompting Diamond to take the baby to the nursery. As she padded towards the door, she caught a glimpse of a shiny object inside the box. Curious, Diamond bent down for a closer look. "This is a lovely button, Mum. Which frock did you get this from?"

Eglantine didn't have to look at the tiny treasure in her daughter-in-law's hand; there were few like it, and most ladies who saw it greatly esteemed it. Finished with her task, she snipped the thread with scissors, allowing Faramir to appreciate his new button. She teased, "Why do you think it came from a frock?"

Diamond laughed, putting Heather in Pippin's lap, whispering something in his ear. Pippin smiled knowingly; he had heard most of the stories behind the peculiar bits and pieces throughout his childhood, and this story in particular he knew Diamond would love. He laid aside his pipe and book, getting up to take his youngest daughter to the nursery and put her to bed.

Diamond sat down beside her children and answered, "Because no self-respecting lad would be caught dead with a silver button made in the shape of a rose on his shirt and most definitely not on his waistcoat." Bonny and Blossom giggled. Fascinated, Faramir sat down with the lasses for a better look. Anticipating a nice, long story, Diamond proceeded to plait Bonny's near dried hair.

Thrilled at another chance to tell stories to the young ones, Eglantine sat back in her chair, her mind's eye seeing a lovely pale pink frock made from silk and silver rose-shaped buttons running the length of the back. Pink rosebuds crowned her pinned up tresses on that cool, clear spring day, but her abiding love for her beloved, her new husband. kept her warm all the day long...

The End

A/N: The story behind the story...lol. When my sister and I were around Bonny's age or younger in my case, our family would visit often visit our great-grandmother. Whenever we grew board with the chit-chat, we'd ask for Grandma's button box. We'd spend the entire visit oohing and ahhhing the variety of buttons she had collected over the years. I remember once or twice my sister holding up a button and Grandma telling us which coat or dress it had come from. Was it true? I don't know, but it made nice memories for me. Her collection most likely resulted from the Depression era, but I like to imagine Eglantine saving buttons to help keep fond memories alive.


End file.
